


Heaven send Hell away (no one sings like you anymore)

by wajjs



Series: in divine presence [2]
Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort Sex, Cults, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Omega Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: If they are to be mates, wouldn’t it be better if they both get used to it as fast as they can?
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: in divine presence [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778017
Comments: 26
Kudos: 333





	Heaven send Hell away (no one sings like you anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> before reading this fic, you should totally read [In my shoes, a walking sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382189) first. this one is a direct continuation, and so there are some things that won't make a lot of sense otherwise. (and yes, both titles come from soungarden's black hole sun)

_Heaven send Hell away_

_(no one sings like you anymore)_

  
  


Jason will never say it out loud. It's a mixture of shame and denial, but when they get to Slade's safehouse he feels, well, _safe._ Protected, somehow. Even when he's well aware he doesn't need protection, not at all, inside these walls, with Slade at his back leaving all security measures on - Jason can feel it, how that restless energy inside him finally lays down. In turn, he himself relaxes. His shoulders slump, his muscles let go of the tension they've been holding. Here, he no longer gets the sensation that there are eyes all around, eyes that see and know and-

Before he manages to undo the precious few seconds of calm he's gained, Slade's back by his side, maskless; a solid presence, one that in Jason's mind is already marked next to the memory of warmth. He supposes that's good, all things considered. There _are_ plenty of other far more negative things his mind could have linked Slade to. Now that they are, they are, well, _that,_ Jason's grateful his brain didn't overcomplicate things for once.

He lets out a rattled breath, taking off his helmet with well practiced movements, and lifts his head to find the other's already looking at him. He shivers.

"You got a shower here?," Jason makes himself ask, breath clumping up in his throat when Slade steps fully into his personal space, one hand moving to gently squeeze the place of their consummated bonding. Jason's knees go a little weak.

The undeniable feeling of cum and slick beginning to drip down his thigh is enough to stop him from going starry eyed.

"I'm," he clears his throat thrice, licking his lips and almost tipping himself into Slade's chest because he's still unused to being looked at with such _want,_ "I'm really fucking dirty."

Slade does not seem to find this much of a deterrent. The opposite, rather. Jason can not only see this in his face, but he can _feel_ it, so strong and urgent through their bond. It makes him shiver, skin sensitive and still under the ghost of Slade's touch. He wants more of it. Needs it, really, if he's honest with himself, because the echo of the bond calls for it, a deep thing that causes ripples in the soul.

But when in his mind Jason sees himself giving into it, allowing Slade's naked skin atop his own… he sees _them,_ in the corners of the room, in the shadows, and they are _watching, watching them, leaving them exposed._

Jason gives one step backwards, puts space in between himself and his mate and, and, there's a bitter thing clawing its way up his throat when he takes in the shift in Slade's expression. It's a murderous one. But not directed at him. No. The bond lets him know clearly who it's directed at. It shouldn't work like that, but it does, somehow, and well, he's thankful. Though he's pretty sure there will come a time he won't be so. It will probably end up being a thing that depends on a case to case basis.

"Shower," Jason repeats his request, needing to get away _now_ before he gets any more anxious, fights his need to flee. It would be a bad thing to do. Their mating is still too fresh under his skin. Their bond seems to have unusual qualities, too. Who knows how it'd react if they are suddenly far away from each other?

"First door down the hallway," Slade says and his voice has no mercy. He's angry. Rightfully so. "I'll bring you a change of clothes."

"Right," swallowing past any lingering shame, Jason sets his helmet on the first flat surface he finds while walking towards the bathroom. He can sense the weight of Slade's stare on his back. Something in him gives a painful tug, but he keeps moving, doesn't stop and doesn't look over his shoulder. 

No. No. Like this it's going to be ok. He's going to be ok.

Under the perfect spray of warm water, he feels himself coming undone. Filth washed away from his skin, fingers shyly dipping inside himself to get cleaned as thoroughly as he can, every point of soreness comes alive and demands attention. It's a bit embarrassing, but he's just… so tender between his legs, like he's never been before. Bordering on overly sensitive.

He doesn't think he's hurt, though. If he were, that wouldn't be surprising, considering - no, but he isn't, and that's a small miracle because he knows he won't be able to go to Leslie for help, not this time. That would mean letting _him_ know. And he's certain, deep in his soul, he won't be able to deal with that.

At most, he'll feel like squirming when he sits down, and that is a thing that's easy to live with. It won't be forever, either. Just a day, or two, no more. Maybe if he, if he, damn, there's slick between his legs now, impossible to mistake with water, and he holds his breath, has the distinctive sound of his heartbeat behind his ears.

He could, he could always… massage himself, just, on the outside, right? Or get off once, let the high of released hormones dull away the soreness for a couple of moments, that wouldn't be bad either… right?

Biting down on his lip, he stops for a second but he doesn't hear any steps approaching. That's good. He doesn't want to, to, tempt? maybe? Slade. Not again. It would be too soon. Not that he's entirely opposed, it's simply that those shadows, those stupid damned shadows, the fucking cultists and their stares leaving them exposed.

They aren't here, though. There are no shadows in this room, nowhere they could be hiding, and he's taking a deep breath, shaking just a little, his hand dipping low again, low, low and-

The door opens. He almost squeaks. _Almost._

"Got you clothes," Slade hums with a strange tone to his voice, "they might be a little big on you, but nothing too bad."

"Thank you," he has to clear his throat once, looking resolutely at the wall, and at least there's a curtain between them so it's not like he's been caught truly red-handed. He’s still all around embarrassed. What was he thinking? This isn’t _his_ shower. “I’ll be, uh. I’ll be out soon.”

Slade doesn’t say anything. Jason shudders at the sound of the door closing, of steps retreating down the hallway outside. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself back inside his own skin, and that’s when it hits him: the whole room smells of his own _arousal._

He quickly finishes washing himself clean after that, red high on his cheeks. It’s so stupid that he feels so out of place, so at odds, when the other not only has seen him naked, but - oh, fuck, Slade’s tongue was _inside_ him, and yet he’s worried he was almost caught -

Rubbing his hair as dry as he can get it with the first towel he grabs, he lets it drape over his head as he picks up the folded clothes by the sink. No one's looking, so Jason allows himself one moment of weakness, brings the tshirt to his face and... inhales. It's faint the scent he picks up, yet it's enough for him and his eyes flutter closed. Even when their mating is so recent, Slade's distinctive scent already helps him feel loose. Confident. Safe. It definitely helps him leave shame aside and he smiles a little, finishes drying himself up with the towel before putting on the clothes.

This time, when he blushes, it's for a different reason. The pants are big on him, not too much to actually be a hindrance, but they lay low on his hips and threaten to ride lower by the smallest of tugs. The tshirt, too, only really clings to his shoulders and chest, though it leaves his collarbones completely exposed and-

It's the first time he sees it. In the reflection of the still foggy around the edges mirror, he sees the mark on the side of his throat, red, bruised, so, so tender. Which makes sense, because it's healing, and he knows he should probably leave it alone but he can't stop his hand from moving as much as he can't control his fingers when they trace the shape of it. His breath hitches, the bond inside coils tight around him. Well. It's time to go and face his, his. His mate.

The kitchen area of this safehouse isn't particularly big but it's well equipped. Slade's fiddling with the coffeemaker when Jason walks to the table, towel around his neck since it's the only thing he's found to keep his mark covered. It's not subtle. And it's probably stupid. He's still doing it, he needs to stabilize himself and this helps, if only a little.

Except it means shit when the moment Slade turns to face him, he also closes the distance between them and takes the damp towel away. What an asshole.

Still Jason just swallows, allows Slade to gently hold him by the chin and tilt his head to the side. He gets it. He wants to see, too. After all, both their mating and bonding were rudely cut short by those cultists and-

"It's healing nicely," Slade hums, stepping fully into Jason's personal space and leaning down to press his lips right over the mark. Kissing it. "It suits you."

Jason feels his breath clumping inside his throat. He shivers. "Yours?"

"Already healed. Still where you left it."

"I want to see it," he says before he can think it through and talk himself out of it. "Show me."

Jason didn’t mean to sound half as needy as he does when his ears register his voice, but he can’t take it back and he isn’t sure he really wants to. After all, it’s true, he’s _is_ needy if one’s to follow the different meanings of the word. He’s both _in_ need, though need of _what_ is undecided, and he’s in want or, well, need, of reassurance. He firmly crosses ‘affection’ out of the definition. He’s not ready to face that truth, yet. He’s likely to never be. Denial is one of his strongest and most developed abilities.

Slade looks at him with an expression that is generous with its amusement. Jason promptly squashes down any warmth blossoming within.

“Very well,” Slade says, crooked smile on his face, and instead of, who knows, maybe tugging down the neckline of his uniform or at the very least putting some space between them, he grabs the hem of the top part of his suit and swiftly yanks it off. He doesn’t slap Jason in the face with it, but it’s only a near thing. “Suit yourself.”

And oh it is very much unfair, all things considered, how Jason’s mouth goes dry to then turn moist, having him swallowing his spit once, twice, eyes taking their time appreciating the expanse of skin laid bare before him. It takes him a handful of too long seconds to actually focus on what he asked to see and when he does he’s entirely (undeniably so) unprepared. Because one thing is reading about it, studying the theories and what’s been written about within a scientific context, another thing is reading and seeing it represented in media, from novels to novelas to movies. Actually seeing it in a very much real context, with the knowledge that it’s _his_ mark and no one else’s, and while sporting the other one that completes the pair… 

“Can I,” he swallows again, focus zeroing in on the bite shaped scar, slightly silver, slightly gold, which, isn’t that odd? Mating marks are _never_ like that. “Touch, I mean.”

He lifts his gaze to meet the heat and candor of the other’s. It’s odd, though they both feel it, that energy building within, crackling and very much alive like the air inside their lungs is. There’s not much room left for words of any kind, which is alright, because in times like these words often end up falling short of the desired goal. After all, there is no discernible meaning for, for, for.

Slade doesn’t stop looking at him, and Jason finds he’s more than ok with it. With being under such attentive and thorough gaze, basked in all that attention. He wouldn’t be, perhaps, in any other situation. At the moment it simply feels right. So he holds his breath, lifts his hand and lets the same fingers that touched his own scar also touch the one upon Slade’s skin. He traces the half moon shape with near adoration and total curiosity, from one end to the other and back to the start again. It’s almost impossible to believe, but it can’t be denied when he’s experiencing it with nearly all his senses.

And it’s probably that thought the one that propels him forward as if in a trance, hand resting at home in the juncture of Slade’s shoulder, right over the hollow of a sharp collarbone, and he rises to his full height. Presses his lips against the lingering salt of the skin, drags his tongue over it, lets himself breathe again as he does. The energy coming alive like a rattling snake finally settles down, deep and comforting.

“You’re shaking,” Slade says, barely above a whisper, and envelops him in his arms without being asked, mostly to hold him up, just in case, but also to have him close.

“I’m not,” Jason gives himself a moment to reply above the pulsing of the bond between them, sinuous and final. Each and every single one of his base instincts trill in ecstasy upon the contact. His mouth finds itself again closing around the mark, he drags the sharp of his teeth over it, and Slade’s embrace tightens. It’s delicious. It’s what’s right.

“Not anymore,” he concedes like an afterthought, hands wandering their own paths, going down, down, until they are closed around the thickness of Jason’s ass, squeezing, digging _in,_ pulling _up._ “Look at you. Fit so well in my hold.”

Jason groans. Feverish shivers course through him. There’s the build-up of slick between his legs. “You are wrong,” he says because he’ll stop being himself if he’s not acting like a smartass and because Slade needs to be corrected when he’s wrong. “ _You_ are the one who fits in my hands.”

“Cheeky,” with a rumbling laughter, he pushes him against the edge of the table, hips lodged together like two pieces of a custom made puzzle. “Say the word, kid. Say the word, and I’ll stop this.”

Truth is, Jason considers it. Thinks that perhaps he should. He doesn’t know if he’s ready, if it’s too soon or if it makes sense because their claims have been made, even if forced when he’s to pay attention to the not-so-fine print. He tastes saying it, the feeling of pulling away, and it makes his chest throb.

If they are to be mates, wouldn’t it be better if they both get used to it as fast as they can?

That’s the light that makes his eyes shine.

“I refuse to do this on top of something hard again,” he says, heart drumming away with vicious fury. It’s all Slade needs to hear.

What a waste of water Jason’s early shower ends up being when he’s with his back against the headrest of the bed, naked and the sweat of his skin making him glisten under the ceiling’s lights. He’s gasping, too, head falling back against the wall, his own fingers lost deep inside his cunt. His legs are spread as open as he can keep them, with Slade right in between, front row of the show.

Like this, though, the weight of being seen is a different one. There are no shadows, no unknown width to the room. It’s just the two of them. It’s. It’s just him, laid bare before his mate. And his mate completely exposed before him.

Jason’s cheeks still go cherry red when to his ears reaches the wet sound of his fingers thrusting in and out, squelching and loud as he fucks himself to new heights, the muscles in his thighs trembling with the effort of fighting back his urge of curling up, closing himself off and away from Slade’s eye. He won’t, though. He won’t. He can’t tolerate having such an exploitable weakness, so he’s meeting it head on, fighting it like he fights anything that can potentially leave him vulnerable. 

He adds a third finger, hips stuttering, and this time, unlike many others in the past, it slips inside with more ease.

“You should see yourself,” Slade says, voice rough and hot, wrecked, almost, and it makes Jason whine a little, “you are a true beauty, boy.”

He blinks past the fading colors in his sight, tries to focus in the here and now, looks at Slade only to notice how hard he is around his own hand, knot beginning to form with each motion. New fever spreads through his entire body, has him moaning aloud, and this time his legs don’t protest when he pushes them open just a tiny bit more. Slade can see this. Slade has already seen and not judged. That’s what matters.

“Close,” he gasps, finally closing his other hand around his own cock, squeezing the base a little, stroking just a tad out of rhythm. “I’m close. Slade.”

“It’s alright,” Slade says, leans closer to press a bruising kiss to Jason’s red mouth. Red is truly a nice color on him. “Let yourself go, kid.”

“No,” Jason whines, breathes harshly, hates himself when he pulls his fingers out, delaying his fall off delicious heights, and instead wraps an arm around Slade’s shoulders, does his best to bring him right above him, “no no, no, not like this, I, Slade, I want.”

“Jason,” is the warning. Clear as day.

He can’t beg. He swallows, tries to find the words.

“Inside,” he says. Slade breathes him in, closes his mouth around his collarbone, bites and sucks and leaves all kinds of kisses behind. Claims him again.

He also pulls Jason fully under him, the mattress so much more soft and giving than rough stone, and there aren’t any chains, there’s no mist or oil bringing the fever as hot as it can be, but this time the want is _theirs,_ the slide of their bodies, the feeling of skin against skin and bruises blooming like flowers in spring, all theirs theirs theirs theirs.

Slade bites down on the center of Jason’s chest, lets his hands roam the meaty thighs, pulls them up, wraps them around his hips. He rolls his hips, not breaching in yet, rubbing himself against Jason’s sinfully damp slit, against his cock, feeling sparks traveling back and forth through the bond. There’s a certainty lodging itself in Slade’s worldview. He’s not sure Jason’s quite ready for it, yet.

He moves a hand between their bodies, grips himself and guides the tip of his cock to Jason’s entrance. He chances a look at his young mate’s face, sees the pleasure in his ocean green eyes, the blue breaking through, the black taking over. Sees the glow that’s not just in Jason, but within himself, too. Like they are one whole coming together again.

Then he’s inside Jason, inside that tight wet heat that molds itself so perfectly to him, pushing in till their hips are flush against one another. He lets himself a moment to just breathe, to enjoy the enveloping warmth, before he’s moving again and again and again, a wicked smile on his lips at the heavenly sound of Jason crying out his name.

It’s the very early hours of a new day when Slade steps out of the shower, hair still damp, and walks to the kitchen to find that Jason’s made a new pot of coffee for them, together with something to eat. Slade’s mouth twitches into a fleeting smirk as he counts the bruises and marks all over the slips of exposed skin he’s being gifted with. And he can still taste Jason on his tongue, better than the finest of liquors in the whole wide world. An addictive thing, really. The one addiction Slade thinks he doesn’t mind having.

Jason’s sitting by the table, half forgotten cup of coffee by his side, an empty plate nearby. He’s glowing, still, and it’s an odd sight, though not entirely unwelcome. He’s frowning, too, teeth having no mercy on the flesh of his bottom lip that’s still swollen from all their kissing (all their biting). But here lies the most important part: he’s got the ancient book open, tip of his index finger guiding him from one row of cuneiform symbols to the next, in his other hand the lit screen of his phone with what looks like some sort of… guide. Glossary, perhaps.

“Got anything to share?” Slade asks, going for the food, leaving the coffee for later.

It takes Jason a couple of moments to reply.

“Not yet,” he says, which isn’t really surprising. “But soon.”


End file.
